Mental Food
by LynLin
Summary: Don’t think, just do. That was his motto. [Bakuracentric]


x x x

Don't think, just do. That was his motto.

He didn't like to think if he could help it. He relied on instinct. He lived in the moment. If he stopped to think—no, he wouldn't stop to think. Because then he'd go insane. And he was already on the brink of insanity anyway, wasn't he? Because being who he was, thinking wasted valuable time.

So he stole things that were just there. Things that could be useful at the moment or for a later time. He didn't stop to contemplate it. He just took them. Later (much much later), he would determine whether or not they could be used.

He always walked around humming some sort of a tune. He was always focused on a task, always doing _something_. He never had time to relax. Relaxing would give his brain room to wander, and he didn't want that. Because it _hurt_.

A natural thief. That was what he was. That was what everyone claimed he was. It wasn't his fault that he could steal things without thinking of a diabolical scheme first. He was just trying to get through it without getting caught. Like they said, he was a _natural_ at it.

Beneath all the action, the madness was only biding its time. It would creep up on his every once in a while, and it unnerved him like hell. Sleep was the worst time for him. Sleep let his mind play tricks on him. Luckily, he didn't remember his dreams all that well.

So when he heard that the old pharaoh had died, the madness came rushing back in full force. He was so _angry_. When he was a child, he had driven himself to the point where the insanity was threatening to consume him—all because he had been thinking of ways to kill the pharaoh. The pharaoh. The one who had killed his parents. His village. His _life_.

The madness provoked him. He repressed it. But now he knew what he needed to do to appease the madness. Steal the old pharaoh, of course. After all, it was stealing, and stealing came naturally to him.

He let his instincts lead him into the palace. His instincts kept him on his toes. His senses kept him from getting caught. The only thing he could think of—the only thing he would allow himself to think of—was that he had to get through it. _keep moving keep going don't die_

Along the way, he saw the ring. It didn't matter that there had been a man wearing it. He hadn't even realized what he had done by the end of it. He vaguely remembered the blood, the fight, the win. He got the ring. He put it on. It was like second nature to him. He acted without thinking. _keep moving keep going don't die_

It was inevitable, really, that the pharaoh would catch him. Somewhere in his disused brain, he knew this. He fought valiantly, the pharaoh had said. He shrugged. It didn't matter. Reflexes were all they were. Attack, defend, reflect, attack. _keep moving keep going don't die_

He needed to keep moving. The pharaoh had captured him, and he could care less. As long as he wasn't left alone to _think_. But no. The pharaoh had obviously his father's son. Because he didn't just kill the thief (not that he wanted to die). No, the damn pharaoh was enacting his revenge. For desecrating the tomb as he had done, the thief would be punished. He'd be sealed inside the very ring he stole (though he hadn't, really; _it_ had stolen _him_).

One sealed in the ring, the thief realized he was very much alone. It had hurt, being taken from his physical body, but pain was good. It took his mind off other things. But now…what could he do? It was dark._ alone all alone no one here can't stop to think no no no thinking stop_

But there was nothing else he could do. Trapped in the darkness, what else was there to do _but_ think? So it all came crashing down. The fire, the burning, the screams, the pleas, the death.

_they're all dead dead dead so very very dead _

And it was all the pharaoh's fault.

_you did it you killed them you fucking cooked them until they were g—and then you let me watch because you weren't good enough because you were too busy because you didn't notice and I was __**there**_

Now it was the pharaoh's son's fault. He inherited the blame. It was also his fault that he was in the ring in the first place.

_damn damn damn damn you _

It made him remember. When he was moving around _doing_ things, he could afford to forget. Now, he could remember. He remembered he was all _alone_ and that they were _dead_ and that he was the _only one_ left to remember but he didn't _want_ to because they were _dead_.

So when he was finally released, he found that his host wasn't nearly as happy as he was. Maybe it was because he had gone mad that his perspective had changed so much. But it didn't matter. He went into his host's body, and it felt _good_. He could move. He could go. He was free.

His host didn't understand his philosophy. His host didn't understand his wisdom. As long as you didn't think, you were fine. Thinking wasted time, wasted energy. He was nearly disgusted by the fact that his host _thought_ all of the time.

_Why won't you learn? _

Pretty pretty delicate little host. He saved his host the pain. He took away his choice. He took over his host's body as much as possible, realizing that as soon as he did, his host would fall into unconsciousness. It was a good thing. His host would forget all his pain. They were both similar in that they were very much alone, after all.

The thief would use his time in his new body to enact his revenge on the pharaoh (because what else was there to do anyway?) while his host would sleep away in his soul room. The pharaoh had come back too, of course. Damn him. He'd learn. _keep moving keep going don't die don't think don't think just __**do**_

His host would thank him in the long run.

x x x

Don't know where this came from. Just wrote it on a whim. Comments, anyone? This was such a strange piece of fiction that I don't blame you if you think it was horrible. It's unbeta-ed, by the way.


End file.
